MISS TAKEN IDENTITY by Annie Holder

One final grift to set him up for life – and it’s a peach.

The Marks are fools, the double-cross pure poetry, and it’ll net him millions.

What career con-man Ricky McAllister hasn’t bargained for is ending up a corpse in a rich man’s mansion, unwittingly setting in motion a rollercoaster of backstabbing and betrayal.

How did Ricky wind up dead, and who will pay the ultimate price for his avarice?

Murderous gangsters, bent coppers, cheating wives, greed and lies – in Miss Taken Identity, no one is quite what they seem.

 

In this excerpt:

Ricky McAllister has just discovered the duplicity of his partner-in-crime, Tammi Rivers.  Nevertheless, the ‘Marks’ are roped, the plan’s in place, the con is on.  Can Ricky ensure Tammi’s compliance by continued coercion…or is she far stronger than she appears? 

(This snippet may contain swearing or sexual references which may not be suitable for younger readers.)

 

His grifter’s sixth sense had been pricked, nay, impaled like a jouster on a lance, by the look in her eyes as she’d revealed the details of her past association with Pickford.

The image of such uncharacteristic vigour animating her usually-reticent features wouldn’t leave him alone. The more he tried to dismiss the memory, the deeper the conviction of its significance became embedded.

Richard McAllister was in the local Reference Library because he wanted to know the truth about the woman with whom he had lived, ducked, dived and survived for so very long. If he’d wanted to trawl the life and times of Marcus Pickford, he’d do it at home on his laptop with the telly on, a whisky on the table, a fag on the go and one free hand absently massaging Tammi’s inner thigh, because she couldn’t stop him – not and keep her front teeth, anyway.

What were they to one another? Not lovers, certainly, despite his best efforts. If Ricky wanted something from Tammi, he had to coerce it forth, which rather ruined the moment. That fact hardly made them friends, either. Were they business partners? That implied an equal relationship, which theirs very definitely wasn’t. Did that make her his employee? It couldn’t. You were supposed to pay employees, and Ricky exercised control by keeping the tightest of reins on the purse strings.

Was she his prisoner, then? He baulked at such an idea. She could leave whenever she chose! Yet, she didn’t. She viewed him with utter contempt, undisguised revulsion, unmistakeable fear … and remained. For what reason?

What had made Ricky toss and turn in his cold, lonely bed these last couple of nights was the unsettling certainty he was about to be screwed, and not in the way he desired.

If you began with Tammi, you got nowhere; just a lot of brick walls and dead ends.

If you began instead with Pickford, her chosen fall-guy, and stripped away the cleverly-layered onion skin of legitimacy, there it sat, plain as day – the most mind-blowing, earthshattering, foundation-rocking discovery Ricky had ever made.

He slumped back in the moulded plastic chair and gaped at the screen as if he’d just been slapped across the face by Father Christmas.

Well, well, well. Little Tammi Rivers. Who’d have thought it? The existence of a twin sister wasn’t the only secret she’d withheld.

Once he stopped assuming he already knew all the answers and looked literally at the information before him, it was obvious; glaring! He checked and checked again, unwilling to admit his catastrophic oversight … but there was no mistake.

He felt such a fool. Ricky McAllister, king of the short-con, had been utterly scammed, and not just for a week or two. Oh no, she’d been pulling the wool over his stupid, unseeing eyes for fifteen years!

Part of him wanted to rush home and tear her to pieces, yet he desired her more now he understood the truth than ever before.

Logging off the computer, quashing both anger and ardour, Ricky sighed, gathered up the reams of revelation, and went to the counter to pay for his photocopying.

He wasn’t sure whether the tears that unexpectedly blurred his vision on the homeward bus journey were for the future he’d already squandered, or the irrecoverable past.

****

Tammi extracted a supermarket carrier bag from the pocket of her winter coat and spread it across the bus seat before sitting on it. Ricky snorted and plonked down next to her.

Tammi glared at him, “This is cream. It’s got the tags in. You’re paying for it if they won’t have it back ’cos there’s a bus-seat stain on the bum.”

Ricky chuckled, “Imagine you, a multi-millionaire property executive, travelling to your latest acquisition meeting on a double-decker, getting dirt on your gold-plated arse …”

Tammi rolled her eyes and murmured, “Imagine …”

She glanced around them before lowering her voice, “You booked a room? It’s going to look legit when we put stuff on the tab?”

“It’s all done. A suite for a night.”

“No embarrassing conversations about money? We’ve got to look the part.”

“We will – all on the bill, chargeable to the room.”

“You need proof of ID for check-in.”

Ricky patted his breast pocket, “Got that.”

“From where?”

Lightly, “Pub,” and praying she wouldn’t demand a look at it, because it could be hard to explain …

“Naturally,” said Tammi drily.

She smoothed her fingers across the coat, flattening the richness of the material against her legs, “Okay. Okay.”

“What are you so jumpy about?”

“You mean, apart from the danger of being caught for credit card fraud, or wearing stolen jewellery or ‘borrowed’ clothes or any one of the other things we’re always looking over our shoulders for?”

“Haven’t you got used to that by now?”

“Jesus, Rick, I will never get used to it! Never! It’s not something you can get used to and be able to sleep at night!”

“I can sleep at night.”

“Yes, of course you can bloody sleep at night … I wonder if that says more about you or me?”

Ricky yawned ostentatiously and didn’t answer.

“Well, apart from the million things you find so very boring, uppermost in my mind currently is the problem of Marc Pickford, of course! Annie and I cooking this up without deferentially consulting him will really stick in his throat. He’ll show up on the defensive and we’ll have to break him down. He’ll be twice as hard to convince – on purpose! It’ll be like trying to reason with a fifteen-year-old in a strop. He’s an utter berk, pulled three ways between his wallet, his ego and his cock.”

Ricky grinned, “But one’s empty, one’s over-inflated, and the other?”

“I can’t remember! You could count in single figures the amount of times I actually had to do it with him to get what I wanted.”

“And what was that, really? I’m not so convinced it was true love.” Ricky thought about the fascinating contents of the bulging envelope of research under his mattress and waited for Tammi’s answer.

She didn’t look at him as she mumbled, “Security.”

“You’re not so different from that sister of yours, are you?”

Tammi’s reply was brittle, “Security, I said, not a free meal ticket on the high-speed Bisto Express! I paid my way. I always have. It was just … just … insurance …”

“Oh, insurance, not security …”

Tammi regarded him narrowly, but Ricky said no more.

The bus juddered onward, making halting progress through the London rush hour. At length, she volunteered quietly, “I’m … not scared exactly, but … apprehensive … about doing this. It’s going to feel funny seeing them after all this time. I’m not sure how I’ll cope with it. My mask could slip, and I might not be able to stop it.”

Ricky turned, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the lanes of crawling traffic outside the dirty window. She looked small and vulnerable. Before he had time to consider the wisdom of such an action, Ricky instinctively slid an arm around her, tenderly drawing her body close and inclining his head to murmur, “I’m here. We’re doing this together. This is to give us a better future. You need to remember two things: the most important one is that we hold all the cards.”

She looked up at him, “And the other?”

“They fucking deserve it … don’t they?”

Tammi pressed her fingers to her lips, and giggled like a little girl. Ricky permitted himself a rare moment of total relaxation, closing his eyes and pushing his face into the soft curls, inhaling the scent of the shampoo she used, enjoying the contact, before forcing himself back to his usual state of vigilance. Habitually, he watched everyone. Given this morning’s discovery, he watched Tammi Rivers most of all.

****

As they got off the bus, the cold wind funnelled down the Knightsbridge Road and Ricky shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. Tammi put on her gloves and carefully folded the plastic bag into a small square for the return journey, pushing it into her pocket and rolling her eyes at Ricky’s mocking amusement. To his surprise, she willingly hooked her arm through his and used his body as a partial windbreak, inching herself in close to his side. The pavement was busy, and they cut through to the park, wandering slowly up the tree-lined avenue to Hyde Park Corner. Waiting to cross, they stared at the imposing stone edifice on the opposite side of the wide road. Ricky felt her body tense and her grip on his forearm tighten.

As they approached the wide, shallow steps and waiting doormen, she hissed, “That card better hold up, Rick.”

He smiled, picking up the pace, keeping her moving, taking the steps two at a time, “It will. Good evening!”

He beamed expansively at the doormen and allowed Tammi to precede him into the opulent lobby, steering her onto a sofa to one side and muttering, “Just in case, cop a squat there for a minute while I do the honours. If it looks like it’s going pear-shaped – leg it. No sense both of us getting nabbed.”

Her look at him was confused. Usually, if there was potential for ‘nabbing’, Ricky would toss her to the lions rather than risk his own hide. He didn’t meet her enquiring eye, but eased her down onto the seat, holding both of her hands, his own gaze raking the lavish space for potential threats. “Look inconspicuous. I’ll go and check us in.”

Marching confidently up to the reception desk, Ricky treated the impassive individual behind the counter to one of his most charismatic grins and leant familiarly across the chilly marble, “Hello there. I popped in yesterday and had a brief chat with your Head of Reception. I wonder if I might see him again for a moment?”

Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Ricky withdrew a Met Police ID, sliding it towards the woman. The receptionist took one look at it and upturned a terrified expression to Ricky, who winked, whispering, “Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart. Now go and get your boss, there’s a good girl.”

She flitted away and Ricky took the opportunity to sneak a surreptitious peek at Tammi. She was flicking distractedly through a copy of Condé Nast Traveller and trying to ignore the Japanese businessman seated opposite and mesmerised by the sight of a shapely, stockinged thigh emerging tantalisingly from the cream coat. She certainly wasn’t paying any attention to Ricky, which suited him fine.

The anxious Senior Receptionist appeared. Ricky flashed the ID again, but the chap remembered him, of course. He was a professional.

“Detective Inspector Farrell. Is it … now?”

“Hello again. Yes. I did warn you yesterday that the timing was bound to be a bit … fluid, so I couldn’t contact you in advance. Is there a suite available?”

The man looked questioningly at the receptionist, who meekly confirmed ‘The Grosvenor’ was free until the weekend.

“As I said yesterday, I’ll only need it for the evening, but it’s imperative my target believes I’m in it for several days, yes?”

“Yes, Detective Inspector, absolutely.”

“After what I told you yesterday, you’re aware it’s an extremely delicate situation. I ask for a suite because I need to ensure total quiet for a clear recording on the wire I’m wearing. Any sound interference could jeopardise a successful prosecution.”

“Understood.”

“As I mentioned, this is large-scale, international property fraud. We’re not playing tiddly-winks for tuppence, here. It’s money laundering from the proceeds of organised crime.”

The man nodded gravely. The woman’s eyes were large and round as dinner plates. Both hung on his every word.

Ricky edged sideways to permit them a good look at Tammi, “That woman there in the cream coat might look respectable enough, but she’s an international criminal on an Interpol watch list. The people coming here to meet her are under surveillance both by my division and SOCA. Okay?”

Both leant slowly around Ricky, fascinated to observe Tammi.

“Right, listen, because this bit’s important. A Mr and Mrs Pickford will arrive shortly. They will ask for Miss Rivers. Send them up to the suite you’ve given me.”

“Yes, Detective Inspector.”

“Make sure the staff who serve us are well aware I’m undercover. There’s no way I can be referred to as a policeman or by my real name. For the purposes of this operation, I’m not an active member of the Fraud Squad with a Scottish accent; I’m a Dutch businessman called Mr Janssen. Okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure the suite butler is aware of that, sir.”

“Please do, it’s vital … otherwise you’ll be responsible for blowing my cover and flushing seven years of very hard work down the bog. My boss’ll have something to say about that, I would imagine. Obstructing an officer is an offence with a penalty …”

The man held up pacifying hands, “We’ll ensure that doesn’t happen, sir.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it. One more time to make sure we all know the drill – who am I?”

“You’re Mr Janssen, sir.”

“I am. And who am I expecting?”

“You’re shortly expecting a Mr and Mrs Pickford, sir, who will ask for a Miss Rivers.”

“Aye, she’s our chum in the cream coat. And how long will I be your guest?”

“Jeanette, I believe Mr Janssen and his … um … companion have the Grosvenor until the weekend?”

“Yes,” breathed Jeanette, eyes flicking between Ricky’s spellbinding gaze and Tammi’s compelling presence.

“You two are naturals! If Hospitality starts getting you down, you could try a detecting career.”

She giggled. He blushed. Both tried to pretend they weren’t thrilled to be in on the action. Ricky imagined the heroic parts they’d play in the stories doing the rounds below-stairs later. Smiling, Ricky stepped away from the counter, winking one last time at the bewitched Jeanette and turning to her manager, “When you’re ready – let’s get this show on the road.”

“This way, Mr Janssen. I’ll show you up myself.”

“One second.” Ricky strolled casually over to Tammi, who jumped visibly as she became aware of his darkly-clad figure standing next to her, fumbling her magazine back onto the table. Expression unreadable, he extended a hand and murmured in a subtle accent, “All done, darling. Shall we go up?”

Tammi managed a nervous, pinched little smile, sliding her fingers across his palm and allowing him to pull her up and guide her across the lobby with a possessive palm to the small of her back.

****

The man unlocked and swung open the door, “The Grosvenor Suite, sir,” allowing Tammi and Ricky to precede him into the mahogany-panelled hallway. Tammi hesitated briefly on the threshold, registering the size and grandeur, before strutting confidently through to the living room, not bothering to look about her, as if five-star hotel suites were all in a day’s work.

“I’ll send the butler along presently, sir. We’ll escort your associates up as soon as they arrive. Will there be anything else, Mr Janssen?”

Ricky stood in the doorway of the living room and watched Tammi walk through the double-doors to the large bedroom, slide off the cream coat and toss it carelessly across the end of the bed, “This will suit us very well, thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to settle in, sir. Your butler will be with you shortly.”

“Very good.”

“Have a pleasant evening, sir. The room service menu is on the table there.”

“Thank you.”

The man left them, exchanging one meaningful glance with Ricky as he closed the outer door of the suite.

Ricky walked to the bedroom. Tammi was out of sight, so he took the opportunity to remove his overcoat, place it over a chair and check the secret ID was securely tucked into the inside breast pocket.

He found Tammi in the palatial bathroom, staring at herself in the huge mirror, “Do I look all right?”

He leant against the doorframe, “You look knockout.”

“Not tacky?”

“No … every inch like you belong here.”

A knock at the door distracted them, Tammi inhaling sharply, eyes wide. He met her reflected, petrified stare, waggling his eyebrows and lapsing into accent, “That’ll be the butler, darling.”

Tammi exhaled relief, managing a wan smile. Ricky strode to the bedroom doorway and called, “Come in!”

A youngish man with a brisk air swept efficiently into the room, “Good evening, sir. Can I get you any drinks?”

Ricky leant back around the bedroom door, “Darling, what will you have?”

Tammi frowned, “I need to keep a clear head, don’t I?”

Ricky adopted his most persuasive tone, “Well, surely you can have one …?”

Tammi’s expression was wary, hesitant. Ricky counted to twenty in his head before she answered, “All right, a very, very small gin and tonic.”

“Okay.” Ricky stepped back into the living room, miming and mouthing a considerably-larger gin and tonic at the butler, who communicated his understanding with a nod, “A microscopic gin and tonic for the lady, sir, and what for you?”

Ricky didn’t delay, “An extremely generous measure of your very finest single malt with a touch of ice.”

“Ice in the G&T, sir?”

“Why not? And some lemon or lime or whatever you have.”

“Certainly, sir. Would you like anything from the room service menu?”

“I don’t think so – not at the moment.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll bring your drinks.”

The man slid out as soundlessly as he’d entered.

Ricky took off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of a dining chair, sinking down onto the sofa, stretching out his feet towards the fire and leaning back onto the supportive cushions, sighing contentedly, “This is more comfy than the one at home.”

“That’s because the one at home pre-dates the dinosaurs.”

“It’s retro!”

“No, it’s knackered!”

Ricky opened one eye and observed Tammi’s passage across the room. She walked stiffly, back ramrod-straight with tension.

“Hey, why don’t you come and sit down here with me?”

Tammi stopped by the end window, as far as she could get from him, “I don’t want to.”

He needed her to relax. In her current state, their cover was blown.

“I’ll come to you, then. I’m not proud.” Ricky crossed the room swiftly. She turned rapidly away at his approach. It didn’t matter. He slid his hands around her hips and tugged gently, overcoming her half-hearted resistance to pull her body back against his. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and hooked his chin over her shoulder, snuggling against her, feeling the same sudden temptation to drop his guard as he had on the bus.

Tammi instinctively reached up and clutched a wadge of shirtsleeve in each fist, in the vain hope it might give her some control over his legendarily wandering hands. They both looked out of the window at the garishly illuminated Constitution Arch.

The butler returned, only the tell-tale chink of ice cubes betraying his presence. Ricky didn’t say anything, so Tammi peeked around Ricky’s bent head, “Thank you.”

“Anything else, Madam?”

“No thank you.”

“Just ring if you need me.”

“You’re very kind.”

He left, the heavy fire door to the suite closing behind him with a barely audible swoosh and click.

“Everything’s so quiet in here. It’s like a library. I feel as if I need to whisper.”

Ricky smiled lazily and nuzzled his face into her neck. “Put some music on then.”

Tammi reluctantly relinquished control over one shirtsleeve to reach for the remote control, pressing buttons and scrolling options until some smooth soul played subtly in the background.

Ricky sighed and hugged her tighter, his lips brushing lightly against her neck as he whispered, “You setting the mood for something?”

Tammi stiffened, immediately on high-alert. Usually, Ricky found her terror of intimate physical contact with him amusing. Tonight, why was it hurtful?

Alarmed, she squeaked, “They could be here any minute! We’ve got to get our story straight!”

Ricky closed his eyes regretfully and, before he could stop the words tumbling out, snapped, “Why do you hate me so much?”

Tammi’s whole body trembled in his unyielding embrace, and she gabbled quickly, “I don’t hate you! I just think there’s a time and a place for everything … and it isn’t here or now!”

Ricky chuckled, “Will you calm down? All we’re doing is having a wee cuddle. You were the one who whacked on the Marvin Gaye.”

“You told me to!”

“I said put some music on. You could’ve chosen anything. If you’re going to prick-tease, Tam, don’t act like butter wouldn’t melt when your bluff gets called.”

“Oh, let go of me!”

“No. Just relax and get control of yourself. Let’s enjoy the experience a wee bit. It’s not as if we have fancy sofas that don’t collapse when you sit on them, lovely open fires, a bed the size of Surrey, shag pile you could lose a gerbil in, and our very own, crawly butler every day of the week, is it?”

Ricky murmured pleasurably and rubbed himself against her buttocks.

Tammi tutted in revolted exasperation and wriggled to get free, “Let go!”

Ricky hugged her closer to him, his pelvis pushing more firmly as she struggled.

“Rick! Lay off me!”

Drowsily, still snuggled against her, Ricky casually cautioned, “Stop fucking whining. Just put up with it for two minutes and I’ll let you go, all right?”

“Whatever,” she stood and endured his touch, glaring moodily out across Green Park.

He nodded at the memorial, “Why have they lit it up like that? They’ve made it look like the entrance to a really shite nightclub.” Tammi tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it. Ricky grinned, turned his head, kissed her neck once, gently, and released her, picking up his drink and settling back on the sofa again, staring at the fire.

Weak with relief, Tammi extended one trembling hand towards the steadying solidity of the window sill, withdrawing her fingers at the unexpected chill of the painted wood.

He seemed all right. Not angry.

She didn’t want to be near him, but they needed to discuss tonight’s plan of action, and she couldn’t shout it across the room. You never knew who might be listening.

She walked over to the tray on the table, picking up her drink and taking the tiniest of sips, “Eeurgh! That’s not a small G&T, is it?”

Ricky shrugged.

Tammi perched next to him on the sofa, her bottom an inch or two onto the cushions, knees together, back straight. Ricky reached across and trailed a thumb down her spine, causing her to shiver. The ice cubes in her glass whirled as she twitched.

Ricky grinned, “You look good, you know.”

Reluctantly, she admitted, “So do you. Very debonair.” He did; suave, handsome, self-assured. In an alternate reality, perhaps they were a normal couple, who kissed each other goodbye as they left for work, bickered over whose turn it was to cook the dinner or collect the children from school, and relished time in one another’s company? The fictional Ricky didn’t use violence to control, or threats to subjugate. The pretend Tammi didn’t have to trade access to her body as a commodity, and neither ran in fear of their lives or the law at every turn.

His hand rested at the base of her spine, fingers rubbing softly. She could feel the warmth of his touch through her dress, “We scrub up all right, don’t we?”

“We do when we’re spending someone else’s money.”

He patted her back soothingly, “Always better to spend someone else’s if you can, eh Tam?”

“Where did you get the credit card?”

“Probably best if you don’t know.”

“Nicked, or cloned?”

“Stop asking questions, Tammi. Have a nice, fat glug of that drink and unwind a wee bit. If they walked in right now, you’d blow this gaff straight away, you look so shifty. You’re making me feel nervous and I know there’s nothing to worry about. This is going to go like a dream.”

Ricky playfully pinched his fingers at her waist, tickling her.

Tammi wriggled and giggled despite herself.

“This is a game, and we’re playing to win!”

“In all seriousness, how are we playing this?”

Ricky sipped at his drink, swilling the smooth, fragrant spirit around his mouth as he considered the best course of action. “I think you do the intros, because they’ll be surprised to see me, won’t they, and nervous as to why I’m here. You never said there’d be a third party in on it, did you?”

Tammi shook her head.

“Okay, so you need to explain I’m your fella and we’re in it together. I’m here because of how spiffingly handy I can be to the plan. I manage your portfolio of investments for you, because you’re too busy making shedloads of money to do it yourself. That should impress him, right?”

“Oh yes, anything that includes the phrase ‘shedloads of money’ will make Marc’s palms go clammy.”

“He’s not the only one. How do I need to be with ’em?”

“With her, just do the usual slimy bastard act and she’ll be putty in your hands … like all girls …”

Ricky sniggered.

“And Marc … he’s an upper-class tosser! He thinks he’s better than everyone else, and believes he’s English through and through, so he looks down on anyone foreign, despite his ancient ancestors coming from the winning French team in 1066. You’ve an uphill struggle to be matey with him, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

“No, I want him to hate me. I want him to compete with me. Will it do his head in if he thinks I’m screwing you?”

“I’ve no idea. What difference will that make? He left me for someone else, remember?”

“Maybe we need to persuade him a swap back’s a good idea?”

“Rick, I don’t see how that’s going to help—”

“Because, Bullet, if he can’t stand foreigners and he thinks he can nick you off me, he’ll feel like The Don, won’t he? There he is, marriage a pain-in-the-backside, no job, no money … but, what’s this? It’s only his old girlfriend, looking the goods, earning a fortune! If he thinks you can deliver the life he’s been missing for a good wee while, he’ll agree to whatever you demand, won’t he, for the promise of the future – including every turn of our lovely plan!”

“You want me to flirt with my ex-fiancée all night, in front of his wife?”

“She doesn’t care! She’s leaving him! All she wants is for him to put his signature on that transfer document. She’ll go along with whatever it takes to get that, I guarantee it. She won’t give a toss if you whip your knickers off and shag him on the mantelpiece, as long as she gets her escape fund. She’s roped him according to your instructions so you’ll agree to trade with her. How you do it is immaterial … so let’s get him nice and randy and see whether that speeds the process up, shall we?”

Tammi pulled a face, “Great. I already wasn’t looking forward to tonight.”

Ricky smiled broadly at her, “I know you’d rather shag me on the mantelpiece, Tam … but you’ll just have to wait ’til later, won’t you?”

A knock at the door interrupted her retort, “What makes you think … Oh! It’s them!”

She plonked her glass on the table and shot to her feet, visibly shaking.

Ricky took his time standing up, walking across to her, slipping his warm hand around her waist and drawing her against him, “Shhh … just be calm. Take a couple of deep breaths and remember we are in control of this. You do the introductions and I’ll do the roping, right?”

She nodded, regulating her panting exhalations through pouting lips.

Amused by her uncharacteristic agitation, Ricky uptilted her chin and brushed his mouth across hers, whispering, “Shoulders down, tits out, big smile. Go and let ’em in. It’s showtime, Tam.”

Is Ricky an undercover Police Officer, a criminal predator, or both?  Is Tammi Rivers as helpless as she seems?  The con is on, but it definitely won’t proceed as planned…

‘Miss Taken Identity’ is available to buy worldwide as paperback or eBook on Amazon.

www.annieholder.com/miss-taken-identity/

© Annie Holder 2018

Annie Holder has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published by Annie Holder in 2017.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination.  Place and public names are sometimes used for the purposes of fiction.  Resemblance to any person, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author.